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We are spotted and blemished and
ring straked herds of milkable critters,

we are modifiable metaphors for
fountains of milk and honey, from
the other side, breathing in and out,

thinking jello seen through,
to the bubble of me, from the one
of you, in the discernible pixels one
adjusts to ignore as the knowledge

milk of conscious multi-tasking,
driving and paying attention

to a bubble popping book,
a Yucca… in jellotime thought form,

takes centuries for some to bloom,
children believe, because why
would the giant yuccas be
called century plants, if
not because they only bloom once

in three generations to be seen,
as a spikey life form familiar,

in the live and let live desert,

where we eat the snakes we ****.

Which causes jellotime to glup up

a contrasting hueristic to guage
color critical shades of orininating
emotions, also known as answers

matching evidence accepted as its
self, as so, we see, it is, these words

connect at attention applied, a hook,
a will to have a go and making sense,

in timeless pastless points,
as art, around the time disease,
and misperceptions, such enforce,
hold that breathe
thought
as truth as manifest cruelty of mighty
blobs of solid right to stand still
and firm, a we form, from ancient
orders,
used to form first informers, thus
inventing us, after dancing to explain,

some where, in your learning control,
taking hold of yourself, see the shape

we may perceive, as we, the payers
of attention needed to twist these

threads, fine
spiderkites from the pines, common

at lattitudes about a third of the way
up the sphere's gravitational truth
compressing core, living idea, life
at planatary participant level,

poet, po. Poe, ever, more avsinthesis
m'dear, Frankly, whether Einstein
or Ben, said it, compounding,
interest in flim flam,
shaking it down, and pressing it
into stone, on which a you are forms
of us as others, redcoats fighting freedom

living legos, universal, and one use,
life is like that, and we the new ones,

we adapt to our techknowlogos, as such,
informing our selves of news and sighns,

signaling
slow down
you read to fast, this is doubt, the feature,
consciously functioning as qwerty guy, key

element of know how, indirectly hanging
by a thread in 'cient science, finding ling-

ering tastes, and effects from kissing,
stretching tongues intuitively knowing

this is what they mean,
or meant, that is, back when, it was said

that forty million frenchmen, could not
be wrong,
about how we gonna keep down
on the farm,
after they've tasted the happy place,
and tickled a childish fascination
with words

and a will, to make light of the dread,
said by many orders of left mind tyrants,

spiritual exercises in will worship,
worth of a warrior learning
there is no easy day,

popping
into my bubble. Easy entry, plop\

into the jellotime you had in mind,
when the whole idea shivered,

like a little rolling green hill,
seen from the clouds, of course,

we have Google's first score, point
one in the assisting intelligence
user's credo, be doers first,

of nothing evil, follow ons,
all your choice, the weapons used

to pull down strongholds,
mighty fortress forces repelling
efforts to fit one trick legos into

monstrosities as effective as
George's Dragon, or my puff tincture,

in the world of wonderful make believe,

tune in, drip. Drip. Slip into the ABC years,
percolater rythm
post recordible television, black and white,
during Disney-ification drills, preceded
by prelingual exposure to Fantasia,

reigning next oldest memory for which
valid links to now exist, occurred
at the White Rock Courts

during the years after 1948,
and a half,  after Fantasia,
was in local theaters,

and GI Bills was not kicking enough,
for rent in Phoenix and driving,
back and forth up one side,
down the other, old mind
river she keep aggin' us on,

she's no devil, no siree,
that wombedman, she got papers on me.

and wise wizardry between jewels
as bright as earth seen from a distance,

as we all oughta know, by now,
as a hitchhiker's angel once said,

yes, sidereal, crossing the Mohave
at night, … pick the road
from Vegas, two lanes, double yellow lines,

easy for my cars lights to show, so I know,
I am on the right side of this thing,

this mound of telling stories found
looted of all but the ghosts
of its chances taken, on mob made rules.